Shades of Aphrodite
by tea and frangipani
Summary: Hermione is sent back into time but she knows the cost of changing the future. In Paris, she hides in plain sight, staying away from temptation, but finds it increasingly difficult as DeathEaters and a certain Marauder won't leave her alone. SBHG
1. La magie des signes

**A/N: **Over the years I have developed a distaste for author's notes but I feel this one is necessary. Hello all, this was written in the heady times before the Harry Potter series was finished. I never had any intention of returning to it but as it happens it's a nice way to de-stress. I have revised the existing chapters, mostly aesthetically. I have lost my notes for this so I'm not making any promises. Thank you, and enjoy.

**CHAPTER ONE**

_Third Year_

"Professor Lupin!" the bushy-haired third-year called out, skidding to a stop in front of her Defence teacher.

Remus gave Hermione a soft smile. "Now I know you can't possibly need help on the homework."

Hermione blushed. "No, I finished that essay _ages_ ago, I just wanted to ask you about something you said in class today."

With a slight frown, Remus racked his brain. Merlin, what did he teach the third-years today? Oh yes – magical creatures.

"Was there another error in the textbook?" Remus asked, with a light chuckle.

"Oh no, that was only once. Everyone knows that the Wolfsbane Potion delays the transformation until moonlight hits the werewolf." She paused, as if waiting for him to make some remark. Remus merely cocked an eyebrow.

"Well," she continued, flustered, "I was just thinking about what you said about the Great Archives. I've read in _Hogwarts, A History, _that our own library is one of the best in the world! But it doesn't seem to match up with the Great Archives in size." Here she suddenly looked worried. "Unless I've somehow missed an entire wing of the library!"

Remus stifled a laugh. "No, no, I can assure you there are no parts of the Hogwarts library you haven't accessed, except for the Restricted Section of course. The difference between it and the Great Archives is simply that the Hogwarts collection, though it may not seem like, has been extensively edited. Only the best educational and scholarly materials are selected. On the other hand, the Great Archives strives to maintain a record of all of wizarding documents. That is to say, it contains more than just books. Newspapers, magazines, maps, photographs, even old radio broadcasts. And unlike Hogwarts, the Archives are open to the public."

"Open to the public?" Hermione nearly shouted, eyes sparkling with excitement. At Remus' chastising look, she lowered her voice a modicum. "Professor, do you mean even _I _could have access to the Archives?"

This time Remus couldn't smother his laugh at her reaction. "Yes, even you may access it."

"And where exactly are the Archives located?" Here she suddenly looked worried. "Not too far away, I hope? Not America… or China?"

"No need to fret, the Archives are located relatively nearby in Europe. France, to be exact." Remus answered, a bit amused with her curiosity.

Hermione lit up, a childish glee appearing on her face. "La belle France," she sighed, dragging out the syllables.

"I take it you've visited France before?" Remus asked, with a small smile at her delight.

"Oh, it's absolutely lovely," Hermione gushed. "My favourite place in the world! After Hogwarts of course. Have you ever heard Édith Piaf sing? Probably not, she's a Muggle but absolutely talented." She sighed dreamily, "_Non, je ne regrette rien!"_

Remus froze. In his mind, he was transported back to a smoky room, dark save for the single spotlight shining on the woman standing centre-stage, dark eyes revealing nothing as she raises then drops her hands, opens her mouth and start to sing _"Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien…" _A thousand theories burst into his mind, but before he could even begin to comprehend what was happening, he found himself saying, casually, "That's an interesting thing to say. Have you heard someone sing it before?"

Did she know? Did this fourteen-year-old girl somehow know something he didn't? It was impossible, since she hadn't been born yet, but maybe…

"Of course! Her songs are still famous in the Muggle world, even though she died in the sixties."

Remus closed his eyes. _It wasn't her._

Hermione was smiling now, obliviously. "Being in France, it's just as nice as Hogwarts, sometimes even more so." Her face fell, almost imperceptibly. "Harry and Ron don't seem to think so. I wish I could go back to France –" then she stopped abruptly.

Remus sighed and rubbed his eyes. What was he thinking? That this tiny slip of a girl, wrapped up in her teenage angst, could somehow unlock the mystery that had gripped them for so long? She didn't know anything. She was just a bright, clever witch, perhaps too clever for her classmates liking.

"It's almost curfew. Perhaps you should return to your dorm?" Remus suggested, and she nodded.

"Of course, Professor," she said dutifully as she left for the Gryffindor tower. Remus headed to his own quarters and pulled out a dusty bottle of firewhisky. He knew returning to Hogwarts would spark unwanted memories, but he never thought an encounter with a student would bring him back so unexpectedly to his own schooldays. He drank, ignoring the burning in his throat, remembering…

_She smiled. Remus thought it would be a confident, perhaps conceited smile, but it was hesitant, small. It seemed odd that someone like her wasn't so very sure of herself. Sirius was; James was; and she definitely had more of a claim to cockiness than they had._

_"You two must have the most scintillating conversations, with one listening and the other not speaking," a familiar voice said. It was Sirius (_Traitor! Traitor! Oh Sirius, how could you have betrayed those who considered you family?_), larger than life, a loud, barking laugh escaping from his lips…_

_Fourth Year_

It was a typical night in the girls' dorm. Hermione was on her stomach, lying on her bed, perusing her Arithmancy textbook, while her two roommates were sprawled on the floor, doing their nails and flipping through magazines. It was a routine of insincere amiability – Hermione thought the two girls shallow and flippant, and Lavender and Parvati considered her too prim and serious – but they had survived each other for four years and that had formed a tolerant, if strained understanding between the three.

"Look, I just got the latest copy Which Witch!" announced Parvati, dangling a fluorescent, sparkling magazine in front of her. "It's got an interview with Celestina Warbeck."

"Oh no, not that frumpy old hag," Lavender sniffed as she carefully painted her toenails Siren's Scarlet, a deep red with sparkles that flashed and danced. "She's so passé and – old!"

Hermione rolled her eyes at that and fought the urge to comment on the infamous gossip rag, worse than even Witch Weekly. She distinctly remembered a particularly scathing article she had read just a week ago about her stringing along Harry, Viktor, and Cedric all at once. The mere thought was absolutely ludicrous!

"Yes, but see here, it says this is the first interview she's ever given talking about Cerise's disappearance," Parvati said, her voice dropping to a hush.

Lavender straightened up, eyes wide, nearly knocking over her bottle of nail polish. "Let me see! I can't believe the cow waited this long to start talking about her, she probably needs the money. I bet Cerise was kidnapped!"

At this Hermione couldn't stay quiet. "Not another Beauxbatons debutante, I assume?" she said in a tone that said quite clearly what Hermione thought of Beauxbatons debutantes. Air-headed, vain girls who could only cast beauty charms, groomed to become the trophy wives of rich diplomats and purebloods.

"You don't know Cerise?" Parvati asked, shocked. "Merlin, I know you're Muggleborn, but how could you not!"

"Cerise! She was an icon! She defined the generation! And her singing voice… A Parisian bombshell!" exclaimed Lavender dramatically, flinging the Which Witch magazine across the room.

On the bed, Hermione snorted. "I hardly think some French debutante who probably couldn't even cast a Patronus to save her life could have defined a generation. What was she, one of those girls famous for being famous?"

"What's so wrong with being famous for being famous?" Parvati shot back. "It's a perfectly respectable occupation."

Hermione merely gave her a Look. Parvati sighed, but Lavender had worked herself up into a righteous anger.

"Oh, so you're saying Cerise was a useless trophy?" Lavender shrieked. "It's an utter insult to her name. You're tainting her reputation! She changed the world!"

Hermione sent the blonde a level stare. "Could you please let me return to my Arithmancy?"

Lavender ignored her and summoned the magazine from across the room. Which Witch ruffled open with a flick of her wand, advertisements bombarding from each page ("The latest in robes – best selection of engagement rings – chance to meet the band in person? – voting for the hottest bachelor has – singing earrings, imported from Athens – be the prettiest witch in your year with our Beautifying Potion! Side effects may occur.") before finally settling on an open page. Celestina Warbeck, her face unnaturally young from her ardent use of cosmetic charms, gazed woefully through the magazine photo, tears welling in her eyes. Letters floated across the page, before assembling into the words THE TRAGEDY OF CERISE – Celestina's Untold, EXCLUSIVE! Story. Lavender snorted with uncharacteristic truculence before turning the page, revealing another wizarding photo, this time of a young woman, maybe twenty, with perfectly groomed raven-black hair. Hermione hated her on sight.

"Look at her!" Parvati sighed, clutching the magazine to her chest. Lavender scowled at her and snatched the magazine back, "Stop that, you'll wrinkle it." Carefully smoothing it out, Lavender laid the magazine in front of Hermione.

The girl in the photo was leaning carelessly against a piano, dressed in a slinky violet dress, an almost haughty look in her eyes as she stared into the distance. Every few seconds she repositioned herself, tossing her hair or trailing her fingers against the piano keys, looking everywhere except directly at the camera.

Hermione ignored the picture of the undoubtedly conceited and vapid female and turned the magazine around. "Lavender, Parvati, it says here that this photo was taken in the seventies." She said bemusedly.

The roommates sighed loudly and exchanged looks that said Isn't-She-So-Silly? "We know that, Hermione. She'd only be about 35 or so these days…if she was still around."

"It was quite a mystery, you know," Parvati began dramatically. "She appeared out of nowhere from France. She began singing in nightclubs, and then Celestina Warbeck took her as her protégé, then she got really famous, but there was –"

"Parvati, please," Hermione cut her off with a long-suffering sigh.

"- Anyways, she eventually disappeared at the height of her career. Even the Ministry tried to find her, you know, it was such a mystery. There's a whole lot of theories around it, like she lost her memory and now she's living in a convent in Venice, or that a fan stabbed her in a jealous rage when she rejected him, or that _You-Know-Who himself_ killed her for refusing to sing at his Death-Eater soiree."

Parvati paused, expecting Hermione to make some sound of astonishment. But the girl was absorbed in examining the magazine. "It says here that Cerise wasn't even her real name," Hermione accused her roommates. "It was just her stage name! And a terrible one, at that."

"Oh, right," Lavender blushed. "Forgot about that. Her real name was something like Hermione Veneva? Grenada? Hey, since you two have the same first names, maybe you're related!" she enthused.

"You have the same last names if you're related, Lavender," Hermione replied in exasperation.

"True, but look at the picture! She kind of looks like you, doesn't she?" Lavender said, pointing at the picture of Cerise.

"Yeah, I see it," Parvati added. "Her hair's much darker and straighter, but basically the same. And she has the same kind of face. Bloody hell, maybe she's your mum or something."

Hermione sat up in bed and sent the two the fiercest glares she could muster. "My mum is blonde, tall, British, and her name's Sarah, not Cerise. Honestly, you two…" She gathered her homework and stalked out the door.

"I have absolutely no idea what Viktor Krum sees in her." Lavender said, bewildered. "I, for one, would be flattered if someone compared me to a famous singer."

"Well, she's the bookish sort. Maybe he likes talking about deep things, so he asked her to the Yule Ball." Parvati offered, twirling a strand of black hair around her finger.

"He's a bloody Quidditch player. How deep can he get?" Lavender asked mockingly, and the two fourth-year girls tittered.

_Fifth Year_

It was Ginny and Hermione's turn to wash the dishes, while an angry Harry retreated upstairs, followed reluctantly by Ron. Hermione didn't mind working with the redhead – she chatted easily and was much more sensible than her roommates at Hogwarts. Ginny was going on how none of her brothers listened to any good music, since they had no taste, while Hermione hummed as she dried and put away dishes, her mind on Harry's earlier outburst.

"I haven't ever heard you sing, Hermione!"

That remark broke her out of her reverie. "Me? Sing?" Hermione asked confusedly.

"Why, are you horrid?" Ginny asked, teasingly, as she scrubbed a plate clean.

"Oh, I'm sure I'm not horrid –" Hermione began, and so Ginny jumped in. "Let me hear, then!"

"Oh, well, it's been so long…" Hermione said doubtfully. It was true. She remembered her years of piano and vocal lessons before Hogwarts, but in the magical world it seemed useless. Why write out notes and tunes when you can wave your wand and make your silverware put on a musical? Nobody here, she realized, understood the beauty of a soaring aria, or an orchestral piece that touches your soul –

"I'll sing with you," Ginny offered, a grin spreading on her freckled face. "I'm no opera singer, but I'm sure I can manage fairly well."

Hermione smiled at that. "Well, if you're sure…" With a knowing grin, she launched into song. " – Move your body like a hairy troll, learning to rock and roll! Spin around like a crazy elf – "

Ginny's eyes widened as she recognized the song and jumped in. " – Dancing by himself!"

The two girls laughed at each other and continued, "Boogie down like a unicorn, don't stop until the break of dawn, put your hands up in the air like an ogre who just don't care!"

Hermione knew that the song Do The Hippogriff had been Ginny's favourite ever since the Weird Sisters had performed at the Yule Ball, and watched laughingly as Ginny performed a little dance in the kitchen, forgetting about the dishes they were supposed to wash. "Can you dance like a hippogriff, flying off from a cliff? Swooping down to the ground, wiggle around and around and around – "

The two of them formed a very nice duo. Ginny's voice was confident, only a bit off-key and hardly wavered at all, while Hermione had a higher range. Unfortunately they hadn't counted on anybody listening into their impromptu duet.

"Nice singing, ladies!"

Ginny and Hermione both jumped, knocking several plates and a glass to the ground. Ginny winced at the mess.

"Sirius!" Hermione said breathlessly. "I – we didn't think – anybody would be listening in…you're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

"Don't worry," he told the two girls, laughter dancing in his eyes. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Secret?" Ginny asked bemusedly. "Merlin, Hermione, singing isn't a crime. You're not…bloody hell, are you embarrassed?"

Hermione shot Ginny a severe look. "I'm not embarrassed about it," she huffed. "It's those bloody boys, that's all. They'll laugh over it for days, knowing Harry and Ron –" she stopped abruptly when she saw Ginny's expression. She wasn't a part of the trio; she didn't understand their convoluted friendship. Ginny – oh, sweet, confident Ginny. She thought everything was just peachy keen. I wish it was, Hermione thought.

"For what it's worth," Sirius interrupted with a roguish wink, "You could compete with angels with that voice."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a faint blush dusted her cheeks. Ginny just smirked.

"So I suppose you've met a singing angel to compare me to?" Hermione shot back. Sirius chuckled.

"You remind me of a girl I once knew," he said slowly. "Good singer, like you. Had all the boys chasing her, and blimey she had the nicest legs I ever saw -" Hermione's mouth opened, and then snapped shut as she tried to slap him.

With a bark of laughter Sirius jumped up and darted from the room.

"He's insufferable!" Hermione complained.

Ginny laughed. "How about continuing our duet?"

"Gladly." Hermione shot back, raising her eyebrow. The two girls looked at each other and burst into song. "Move around like a scary ghost, spooking himself the most!"

Hermione laughed and laughed and laughed, but once school came there were fewer times to laugh and after Sirius died there were no times to laugh. Hermione wished she had spent more time with the man she had previously dismissed as irresponsible and reckless. She only had a short glimpse of who Sirius had been before he was haunted by the shadow of Azkaban.

_Present_

"The horcrux is just over there – " Harry craned his neck. He could only make out a glint of something shining on top of a faintly glowing pedestal. The tall, imposing, jagged edges of the cliffs surrounding them did nothing to protect them from the stifling heat. The trio were in the midst of the Sahara desert, having Apparated to an oasis several kilometres out before making the arduous trek to the canyon. The name of the canyon in the nearby indigenous tribe's language roughly translated to Canyon of Magedeath, and the trio had good reason to believe Voldemort had chosen this place to hide a Horcrux.

"We can't get to it until the sun arrives in the right position," Hermione said calmly, looking up to the sky.

"So you've said, many times," Ron mumbled grumpily. Hermione ignored him, still gazing up at the almost blindingly blue sky.

"Just…about…NOW!" She said suddenly. Then sun inched higher in the sky, casting light into the formerly dim cavern.

Harry started forward, but stopped as he noticed the yellow sand surrounding the pedestal. "Hermione? What's with the sand?"

"Probably some sort of evil, soul-sucking sand," Ron put in helpfully.

She frowned. "I have no idea…let me cast some diagnostic spells…" Waving her wand, she cast several rapid-fire spells towards the yellow sand. "It's not quick sand and there's nothing overtly malicious about it…"

Harry edged his way towards the sand. As he got closer, he noticed the sand almost – twinkled. As he moved to step onto the sand, Hermione's eye widened. "Harry, don't!" she shouted as she recognized the sand. She had no idea how she'd missed it, but then again, she'd never seen it before in such large quantities… "It's Time Turner sand! Stop!"

He turned to her, but his foot was already descending. Both Ron and Hermione darted forward towards him, but Hermione reached his faster. She clutched his sleeve and pulled him backwards. Harry fell with a thump towards Ron, looking bewildered.

A bubble of hysterical laughter grew in Hermione but she quickly clamped down on it. "That was a close one, mate," Ron commented, helping Harry to his feet.

"But how are we going to get the Horcrux?" frowned Harry. "I'm not too sure how well magic will work here, this is called the Canyon of Magedeath…"

"It's the natural magic destabilization of the canyon, but I've read up on it. It only affects those who perform powerful magic, such as mages." Hermione informed him.

"How does it affect mages?" Ron asked suspiciously. "The name itself, 'Magedeath', well that doesn't leave me too comfortable."

Hermione threw him a disdainful look and pulled out her wand. "The phenomena absorbs the magic and uses it to warp the caster's nightmares, quite visually. It's not directly fatal but there are unsubstantiated rumours that several wizards died from fright. It's rather similar to Dementors, in fact, there are several theories that Dementors' natural habitats were these areas of destabilization, which caused them to evolve in an unnatural way."

Ron gave Harry an alarmed look.

"A simple Accio shouldn't hurt, and we might as well try." Hermione added, and flicked her wand.

Nothing happened. The horcrux stubbornly stayed put. And then a horrible chill descended upon the gorge they were standing in. A cluster of black-looking clouds on the horizon, quickly growing in number, slid in front of the sun, turning the canyon threateningly gloomy.

"I don't think this was supposed to happen, Hermione!" Harry said tautly.

"Oh dear, I can't believe I didn't think of it before, Riddle must have tampered with it, probably some sort of magic-enhancing negation – " she babbled nervously.

"What do we do to stop it?" he demanded her.

"We can't, we can only grab the horcrux and run!" Hermione answered, looking distressed. Already, tendrils of mist were snaking along the rocky floor – no, make that grass – and curling around a tombstone… tombstone? Harry shook his head violently to dispel the images and turned to Hermione and Ron.

"This place rather reminds me of the Department of Mysteries…" Hermione whispered in a hollow voice, hands ghosting across the old wound on her stomach.

It was too late, Harry realized, even as he gazed across the graveyard that haunted his dreams so often. He turned to Ron, but instead found Cedric… "Kill the spare."

A scream echoed off the canyon's walls, and Harry thought it might be coming from his own mouth though he wasn't sure. He clamped his eyes shut, hoping to escape the dream – the dream – the dream!

It was only a dream. Just as the scream was cut off, Harry opened his eyes again. Instead of seeing a lifeless Cedric, his eyes found Ron - pale, visibly shaken, but completely alive. The sinister atmosphere of the canyon seemed to have disappeared, and the two friends smiled at each other.

"How - did it end? Did you - did you stop it?" Ron asked, stumbling over the words.

Harry shook his head. "I don't think it as me, it must have been Hermione –"

The two suddenly looked at each other with dismay as realization slowly sunk in. Time Turner sand was scattered among the dirt, still twinkling maddeningly.


	2. Le desert est capricieuse

**CHAPTER 2**

_Her hands scrabbled at her stomach, as blood and guts poured out in a torrential gush._

_He smirked. "Did you think I'd let you go that easy?"_

Hermione came to just as the sun sank past the cliff, throwing the canyon into darkness. The last hazy vestiges of the nightmare quickly receded, leaving only a throbbing ache in her fuzzy mind. Bloody canyon, she thought sourly. The experience was worse than Dementors. With a groan, she felt her forehead, sticky with blood and matted hair.

"Harry? Ron?" she called out, still feeling woozy. Her voice, echoing back to her, made her feel a sudden pang of loneliness and anxiety. "Boys? Are you alright?"

Something had happened, and her two boys were no longer there. Hermione felt tired, oh so tired, and now to have another obstacle thrown at her face! It seemed whenever they took a step forward, they were pushed back another metre. She sat up on the packed dirt floor, her hand reaching for her dropped wand. Then she squinted. Sand twinkled up at her.

Time Turner sand! The realization hitched her breath as she saw the golden sand scattered on the dirt. Harry and Ron weren't the ones who had disappeared – she had, into history.

"Oh, bloody hell." The situation warranted some more cursing – after all, it wasn't every day you were sent back in time. Well, unless you had a Time-Turner. And she didn't. Hermione grabbed her wand, mercifully unbroken, and then staggered out of the canyon, back into the sweltering heat of a younger sun – the only question was, how many years younger. But what were years to the sun? Less than a heartbeat or an intake of breath, in its inexorable lifetime. Somehow the thought didn't comfort Hermione. By all accounts it was impossible to travel so far back into time. Too much was stacked up against it: all the theories of paradoxes, alternate universes, chronology protection conjectures and parallel realities suggested that time travel was limited to increments of hours, no more than 24. Had she stumbled through time and space, and ripped apart the very fabric of the universe? Was it deconstructing at this very moment–

Hermione shook her head firmly, dispelling her panicky thoughts. This was not the time to lose her mind; she had to act quickly to save the timeline. Grimacing at her bloody clothes, she wished she could clean them magically, but she was still too close to the Canyon to safely cast magic. Sweat trickling down her forehead and shading her eyes against the blistering sun, Hermione sighed and began the long trek back to the remote oasis.

In the oasis, a nomadic tribe had set up camp. The oasis was a favourite of theirs and they visited it often over the years; they favoured it for its remoteness, which offered protection from the clan wars that periodically gripped the desert.

Today however a cloak of uneasiness had settled heavily over the group, and daily chores were delayed and put off. The tribe lingered restlessly; feeling the anxious pulse of the desert, knowing something was to come.

"Elder, I know you can speak the language of the earth," the chief of the tribe asked his grandfather, a wizened old man, respectfully. "What does the desert say?"

The old man sighed and closed his eyes, silent for some long minutes. Finally he murmured, "The stones grumble, the sands hiss, the winds sigh – yet they all have the same message. It will come, but there is no danger."

Hakim nodded, comforted by his grandfather's words. "Thank you, Elder. I will tell our families that there is no need for fear; the desert we depend on has not turned against us."

Suddenly the world became hot and cold at the same time; time and space squished, contracted, stretched out; noises and voices filled his ears. For one tiny moment, the universe filled them. The two men fell to their knees, crying out from the experience. "The desert! – the desert!" Hakim gasped, yet it was already over. The world subsided into silence.

"It has happened," his grandfather told him, tears still leaking from the sweeping grandeur of the encounter. "Now, we must wait."

Hakim quickly spoke to his tribe, reassuring the families that the desert was not angry. The experience had shaken most of them: crying babies were silent, women walked with wonder on their faces, and grown men sobbed as if they were newborns. "It was not a punishment," Hakim told them. "It was our gift."

The families still murmured and whispered but accepted his words, for Hakim was a worthy chief and he had inherited much of his grandfather's wisdom. The camels were brought in and fires were lit, for the preparation of food. Yet each person watched the desert, squinting into the golden blindness of it, wondering what was to come next.

Finally, as the sun's disc was only half visible above the horizon and night began to set in, Hakim's grandfather whispered, "It comes."

Hakim sat up and squinted, but it still took his eyes another minute to find the white dot travelling down the sand dune that his grandfather spoke of.

Someone was coming.

Whoever it was, they were coming from the heart of the desert, straight from the Canyon. He had heard of people walking to the Canyon, but he had never met anyone who had returned. The news spread through the oasis like wildfire, and by the time the stranger had arrived at the oasis, everyone in the tribe was waiting. It was a woman, with bare arms, legs, and head, and skin paler than the desert sand. For a moment Hakim doubted, and wondered if this foreign-looking stranger would bring more trouble than what was worth, but her eyes were dark and kind, like his grandfather's.

She was exhausted and dehydrated, so the woman brought her the traditional tough bread, skins of water, and skewers of meat. The woman the desert spat out smiled and laughed and tried to communicate through strange words. But finally, after she had drank and eaten her full, she was brought to Hakim, the chief, and his wise grandfather.

"This woman the desert has given us, is she meant to stay?" Hakim asked his grandfather, aware of the curious brown eyes watching him intently.

His grandfather shifted imperceptibly. "It is not for us to decide," he said finally. "Only she knows." Then he cocked his ear, as if listening to an unknown voice. "But the desert whispers that there are great things in store for those with great powers."

Hakim turned in amazement and realized what the desert had given them. A shaman! She must have caused the event earlier in the day, and her strange colouring only marked her as one with power. Reverently, he ordered for their best camel to be loaded up with supplies immediately. He did not want to offend someone who had the power to destroy their haven, the oasis.

When they led the camel out to the woman, surprise was written clearly on her features before she began shaking her head emphatically. Hakim tried to communicate his intentions to her, but she still refused to take the camel. Instead, she chose a small skin of water from the supplies, a small thing of no importance, before turning to Hakim and his grandfather and smiling and bowing. Then, with a wave of her hand, she began to hike out of the oasis, towards the distant north.

Hakim watched her departure through the twilight, wondering who would be insane enough to attempt to trek out into the desert, with nothing but a full stomach and some water. His grandfather touched him shoulder. "Do not fret, my grandson."

Hakim turned to look at the old man, whose eyes were twinkling mischievously as he said, "Nobody can start a new beginning, but anyone can make a new ending."

Hakim looked back to the desert just in time to see the woman disappear, only half a mile away from the oasis.

It was many years later, long after the passing of his grandfather and when he had become a grandfather himself, when those words came back to him. He stopped, cocked his head, and listened to the desert.

"What is it you hear in the ancient language, Elder?" his young nephew, the chief of the tribe, asked him respectfully.

"The desert whispers, and a new ending comes," Hakim replied. "We wait."

When two men and a woman journeyed to the oasis, Hakim was not surprised when the woman had bare arms, legs, and head, and skin paler than the desert sand, not a day older than when he had seen her twenty years ago.

"Elder," his nephew came to him later, "the foreigners wished to travel to the Canyon. We all know that although people have gone to the Canyon, none have ever returned. Should we warn them to give up this folly?"

"My young nephew," Hakim replied. "It is time for you to stop listening to the tales of humans, and listen to the truth of the desert. For I have known someone who returned from the Canyon."

Hakim watched as the trio travelled south, until they disappeared on the horizon of a distant sand dune. "And so we make a new ending," he told the desert.

A/N: I kept my wording, names and descriptions of the nomadic tribe deliberately vague, since I have little knowledge on this topic and I don't want to offend anyone. Also, the second part of the chapter was influenced by the book L'Alchimiste by Paulo Coelho. I recommend you check it out; it's published in many languages, English included.


	3. Une sonnerie de trompette

**CHAPTER THREE**

"They call themselves the Knights of Walpurgis," Albus Dumbledore informed Minerva. He was sitting behind the ancient, ornate desk in the Headmaster's office, quill scratching away busily on parchment as Fawkes preened himself in the corner. As usual, the fragile-looking devices and contraptions filling the room were busy working away at some mysterious tasks Minerva had never grasped.

The Head of Gryffindor scowled at his words. "They're trying to pass it off as some sort of – wizarding vigilante group, or – or a neighbour watch!" she said furiously. "Everyone can see they're nothing less than Pureblood fanatics!"

There was a short silence as Albus sucked thoughtfully on a lemon drop. "Unfortunately, while that much is obvious to you and me, the Ministry has chosen to take a more moderate view of the so-called Knights."

"You mean the Ministry is the pocket of all the Purebloods and would never dare lift a finger against them." Minerva said despairingly. "It's only a matter of time, Albus, before this situation… explodes. Today it's new proposals, new laws limiting Muggleborns' place in our world, debates and reminders of the witch burnings, of Pureblood dogma; something will give and people will die."

"You're right, as always, Minerva." The couple lapsed into silence, and Minerva found herself staring determinedly at the tiny silver instrument gently whirring away on his desk. The instrument looked more like an executive toy belonging more on the desk of a Ministry official than a serious piece of magical equipment. It consisted of delicate silver wire twisting into circles and half-circles, with tiny golden globes attached on, in various sizes. Minerva supposed it looked like some sort of astronomy model of the cosmos, and as she observed it, the sculpture spun slowly in perpetual motion, in a dizzyingly complicated way. All in all, it was very pretty and mesmerizing to watch, but she doubted the extent of its usefulness. Knowing Albus, it probably was nothing more than a toy.

"Well, it is clear that the Ministry will not be taking action against the Knights of Walpurgis, at least not until their true intentions are revealed, and by then I'm afraid it would be too late," Albus began cheerily, giving Minerva a start.

"Yes," she answered, biting down on her impatience with the Headmaster's eccentricities and penchant for nonsensical statements. "And what do you propose we do, then?"

"To the Ministry, the Knights are nothing more than a, vigilante group, as you said in your own words…" Albus trailed off, eyes twinkling. "So what's a few more vigilantes to the Ministry, then?"

Minerva furrowed her brow. "I don't quite follow," she said carefully.

"Surely there's enough room for two neighbourhood watches!" Albus chuckled jovially, pleased with himself. "If the Knights of Walpurgis want to keep an eye on the Muggleborns, why, there must be others who would like to keep an eye on the Purebloods."

Comprehension dawned. "But Albus, they'll never consent," she said mournfully. "It's not politically correct to suggest that it's the Purebloods who we should watch over!"

"Minerva, my dear, the beauty of vigilantism is that it's always unauthorized. The moment it is, it's no longer vigilantism but government!" He paused, and popped another lemon drop in his mouth. "Of course, we won't say it's the Purebloods we look after in so many words," he added diplomatically. "I'm sure our general focus will be hindering the ambitions of wizards inclined to evil, which brings us full-circle to the Knights of Walpurgis."

He stopped, waiting for some kind of reaction from Minerva. However, she seemed content with gaping, and he continued: "Those matters are trivial anyways, since undoubtedly our little vigilante committee will be a nicely-kept secret. I've been discussing it with Alastor, and I think the Order of the Phoenix would be a fitting name, don't you agree?"

Minerva's mind reeled from his utter nonchalance, and she managed to gasp out, "Albus – don't you think you're taking this rather lightly!"

He opened his mouth to answer, then stopped, frowning. Minerva followed his gaze down to the instrument she had been scrutinizing a few minutes before and the two watched as the wire and globes stuttered to a stop, before slowly continuing with its rotations, but this time in the opposite direction. Not for the first time, Minerva wished she knew what the exact nature of the Headmaster's many gadgets were, because one look at his face had her revising her impression that the sculpture was merely an intriguing plaything.

"Curious, utterly curious!" he breathed, before pulling out a gilded magnifying glass from the depths of his desk, examining the instrument with much hemming and hawing, before setting down the magnifying glass and pulling out a small telescope. When he tapped the copper telescope with his wand, it elongated, and Minerva momentarily admired the runes dancing along the copper engravings as he peered through the telescope down at the instrument.

Minerva felt rather like his student again as she sat awkwardly while he muttered comments to himself and studied the instrument intently. He sheathed the telescope and pulled out a curious looking tool, half sextant and half protractor. He scribbled a few measurements down on his robe, still muttering furiously to himself.

"Albus? What exactly does that… do?" Minerva asked tentatively.

"Inter-Planar Chronomancy," he answered absently, before leaning back and heaving a huge sigh. "But to be perfectly simple, it measures the passage of time. Now the important question: why is it working backwards?"

"It must be defective! Otherwise, the alternative would be…"

"Quite so, I'm afraid." Albus suddenly smiled and stood up from his desk. "We are moving backwards through time!"

-

Hermione apparated into a busy Diagon Alley, still clutching the flask of water the tribe had given her. With apprehension, she slowly opened her eyes. Would Diagon Alley of the past be too unfamiliar for her to recognize?

To her relief, Diagon Alley wasn't entirely different from the one she was used to. Some shops were unfamiliar, but there was still Madam Malkin's, Fortescue's ice cream parlour, even Flourish & Blotts. Witches and wizards walked by hurriedly, but she noticed the lack of teenagers. It was a warm spring day, so she guessed Hogwarts was still in session.

Looking down at her Muggle clothes, she suddenly felt foolish. Here she was, standing in Wizarding London, with no robes, some water, and about five pounds leftover in her pocket.

Quickly, she pulled out her wand and transfigured her top into plain black robes, hoping to blend in better. While Diagon Alley wasn't as different as she feared it would be, there was still the question of how far exactly she had travelled into the past. Hermione suspected it could be anywhere from five to ten years, it was impossible to tell. Unfortunately for her, the Wizarding World was slow to change, and even then changes were rarely noticeable. That seemed to apply to Diagon Alley, too: there was no easy indicator of the date to be found, so Hermione knew she'd have to do it the old-fashioned, ink and parchment way.

She ducked into the Leaky Cauldron. It was empty, being in that dead period when lunch is already eaten but dinner has yet to come. It was as shabby but comforting as ever, and the bartender looked up as she entered the pub. "Afternoon, miss!" he called cheerfully as he wiped down the counter. "Fancy a butterbeer?"

"Not right now, thank you," Hermione answered politely, all too aware of her lack of money. "I'm waiting for my Aunt," she added. "Do you mind if I read the paper?" she asked, gesturing towards a forgotten Daily Prophet lying on a table.

He shrugged. "Someone left it this morning, be my guest."

Hermione thanked him then settled down to read. She unfolded the paper, then faltered in surprise.

April 26, 1976.

The bartender misinterpreted her shock and sent her a look of sympathy. "You didn't hear about the latest attacks?"

Hermione forced herself to drag her eyes down to the headline. TWENTY KILLED AND FORTY-EIGHT INJURED IN LATEST ATTACKS BY YOU-KNOW-WHO. Underneath was a picture of Aurors examining a house with the Dark Mark hovering above it. Oh dear, Hermione thought faintly. "I've been… out of the country," she murmured in reply.

He shook his head. "It's a right shame but there are more and more deaths every day, maybe out of the country is the best place to be right now." He laughed nervously.

Hermione realized her hand holding the paper was shaking. She made herself stop.

1976. With growing excitement she understood the ramifications of the date. There are still the Marauders – Harry's parents – Neville's parents – I could change everything –

Belatedly Hermione knew she could not. She was already close to unravelling the fabric of time; she could not allow herself to give in to temptation! Still her fingers twitched; it would only take one anonymous note to Dumbledore… No! She couldn't! Hermione despaired, wondering why, out of all the years, she had been sent here.

She stood up suddenly. It was clear to her that she could not stay in England. "I'm sorry," she told the bartender absently. "I just remembered something…"

He shook his head as she scurried out into Muggle London. "You-Know-Who is bad for business," he grumbled.

Right before stepping outside, Hermione paused and ended the spell on her robes, changing it back into her top. Hermione could believe she was in the 70s as she walked around Muggles, due to the ridiculous amount of bellbottoms and polyester she saw. She quickly spotted a drugstore and strode inside. If she was going to hide in the past, she wasn't going to do it halfway.

Even though there weren't really any studies conducted on this sort of thing (it would be incredibly hard to measure the effects of time travel in the past on the future, for one thing), there were a good many theories on it, and even more books on the subject. Time travel was a topic of much fascination to wizards, it seemed. Not that Hermione could fault them, since she herself devoured book after book on theories and conspiracies and philosophies once she was given her Time-Turner. In fact, after that intense period of investigation she could've written a book of her own, since she was so knowledgeable on the subject. So it was in that way that Hermione had some idea of what she should do, stranded in the past.

Still, as she locked herself into the cramped gas station bathroom and turned the box of hair dye over in her hands (Permanent – Midnight Black), she thought everything would be much simpler if she could only speak with Dumbledore. The Headmaster would surely have the answer for everything – he could even have a way for her to travel back to the future – No. She couldn't change anything. If she told Dumbledore about her time travelling, how would that change future-Dumbledore's reaction to first-year Hermione arriving at Hogwarts? Perhaps he would never let her use the Time-Turner in Third Year out of some misguided attempt to stop her from going to the past – and then Sirius would have never been saved – Hermione broke off the thought there. Sirius, the closest thing Harry has, had, to a father. How could she take away that short pleasure from him, even if it meant saving herself? Never let it be said, she thought broodingly, that there was something she wouldn't do for Harry and Ron.

Could she even trust Dumbledore to preserve the timeline if she revealed to him what she knew? Over the years, her view of him had changed, and from what she gleaned from Harry's admittedly biased experiences, it was hard to say how much Dumbledore was willing to sacrifice for the greater good. How easy would it be to discover the traitors, save the doomed? Only for the small cost of the temporal integrity of the universe. Magic was a finicky creature, and fooling around with time was a sure-fire way to be erased from existence.

No, even meeting Dumbledore as she looked now would cause an irrevocable rippling throughout the timeline. She couldn't risk it… what would happen if someone met her in the past, and then recognized her younger self many years later?

Then there was the darker reality, the one she had not yet accepted: she would most likely never find her way back to her own time, beyond the simple act of aging. She would have to wait two decades before she caught up with her present – not something she desired. She grimly wondered how Harry and Ron would deal with a middle-aged Hermione. But the true implications of her predicament went much deeper than that. If she wanted to preserve the timeline, she couldn't change _anything._ Of course, her simple existence constituted as a change, but she prayed that the fact she hadn't yet imploded into a speck of nothingness indicated that time would not punish her for that particular transgression. But the fact remained – she could not change anything. She could not risk writing herself out of existence – how would Harry survive his many brushes with death without her? So Hermione had to set herself firm ground rules. She could not save anyone. She could not kill anyone – not even if her own life was at risk, she noted to herself as she swallowed her despair. She could not run around in the past as Hermione Granger. What if a younger Hermione recognized her older self?

And that's why I have a box of black hair dye in my hands, she reminded herself. So no one will ever be able to recognize me in the past or future.

Still, she touched her hair longingly. Her hair was such a nice colour after all; it would be a pity to stain her honey-brown hair black, permanently. Of course, it would be so much easier to put a glamour spell on herself: but then there was always the risk it would disappear in an inopportune moment, or if by some chance a wizard cancelled the spell, effectively revealing her true identity – or even the Ministry could track her down, and a seventeen-year-old girl with no records of magical schooling with a beauty charm on her hair would seem infinitely suspicious. And the whole point of the thing was to remain inconspicuous and generally suspicion-free. And far, far away from Voldemort, Hogwarts, and the Marauders until she found a way to get back to her own time.

But where would she go? She could not stay in England; that much was sure. North America was considered then discarded; it was too far from Europe. She wanted to stay close enough to what she knew, but far enough from temptation. Merlin forbid if she moved to America and unknowingly caused drastic changes in history! She always had a soft spot for Italy, but her knowledge of Italian was rudimentary at best. She preferred to stay away from Eastern Europe, knowing it was a hotspot for practitioners of dark magic, the very sort of people she wanted to avoid. Then, as she passed a rundown travel agency with a faded poster in its grimy window, a smile blossomed on her face. France. Or to be more exact, Paris.


End file.
